of one of these establishments would not be
chosen as the most quiet spot upon earth, by
any nervous old gentleman, when a round
dozen of the young inmates were teething.
It is not difficult to imagine the look of horror
with which the ghost of Malthus (if such
things be) will rise to witness the ceremony of
laying the foundation stone for the first
Day-Nursery. As the advocate of mercenary
matches, this suppositious spirit will assuredly
make some kind of demonstration on the
occasion. Yet it is hardly necessary to invite
the ghost, since so many still cling to his
crotchets, and a few would not even dash the
cup of poison from an infant's lips. There
cannot be many who would leave the cradle
unguarded,—the hapless babe to die by slow
degrees. A regard for the future—for the
generations with which our children will
work and live—is that to which the advocates
of these Nurseries direct our particular attention.
It is a question whether the artisan
class shall dwindle, in physical stamina and
in mental capacity, to poor, dwarfed images
of God, under the laudanum doses of Preston
and Manchester; or whether, by showing a
parental solicitude for those children, whose
parents are called away to the factory and
the loom, by affording them, at a fair rate
of remuneration, the advantages of scientific
treatment and honest care, we will
endeavour to give them a fair chance of
becoming strong and intelligent Englishmen.
The question of Day-Nurseries—the
question of Protection for the Cradle—has an
intrinsic importance which reaches beyond
the exigencies of the hour; it is one that
concerns every man, and will interest every
man who acknowledges that social duty,
which has never been publicly derided even
in the darkest passages of the world's history
—the duty of the adult to the infant.

                 A MEMORY.

SOMETIMES in halls of beauty and of love,
      Where many fair and many proud ones be,
And where the reckless and the thoughtless move,
             I picture thee.

Thy memory comes to my lone heart enfolden
      In strains of sweetest music; murmuring low,
Strange tales of dames and knights in pageants olden,
             And courtly show.

The lonely wind that sighs in murmurs deep
      Round some old ruin dear to love and fame,
Luring the passer-by to pause and weep,
             Might breathe thy name!

I picture thee the spirit of some spot
       Beautifully haunted by an olden spell;
Some waving wood, or silver-streaming grot,
             Or perfumed dell.

Ever retiring in thy simple grace,
       A gentler, dearer presence, never shone
From mortal figure or from lady's face,
             Than thy dear one.

A very rose-bud to the gazer's eye,
      Yet to the sense thou art a blooming flow'r,
Pouring thy fragrance on the summer sky
             At evening hour.

Ever in dreams thou com'st. I may not trace
      In waking hours the presence of that spell
Which holds me bound with such a winning grace.
            —Farewell!

THE NEW ZEALAND ZAUBERFLÖTE.

IN THREE CHAPTERS.—CHAPTER II.

THE spot to which the king bent his thoughtful
steps, was situated at some miles' distance
from his village, and was, in fact, on the
extreme borders of the country of the Mokauries,
and not very far from the district to
which he had banished his son Waipata.
Not only was the place itself unfrequented,
but the way to it was among the most lonely
of the many lonely tracks that abound in this
country. After some two hours' journey,
you might, in passing across a moist slope of
grass and reeds, or an undulating reach of
ferns, come suddenly upon the motionless
body of a Maori bird-catcher, lying upon his
face, half covered with leaves and green tufts,
having one hand extended with a piece of
"odoriferous " pork, or shark's flesh, grasped
in his fingers, to attract the bird—the other
hand also embedded in the grass, being ready
to seize the bird directly he had fixed his
beak and claws in the bait. Or, in walking
by the borders of a still river, you might see
a thick mass of broken reeds, drift-wood,
duck-weed, and decayed bullrush slowly floating
down the stream, which is, in sooth, a
native fisherman, who lies on his face, with
his nose and mouth turned sideways now and
then, for breath, in whose extended hand, a
similar bait for fish, or bird, is grasped.
These not very enlivening varieties, with a
distant view of a party of wild hog-hunters,
were the only interruptions to the unbroken
solitudes through which the king wound his
way. The loveliness of Nature had no voice
for his ear; or rather he had no ear for
Nature's voice. At every step, he either
breathed vengeance upon Teöra and Kaitemata,
or turned over in his mind his ingenious
plan for its execution.

Full of this design of rendering the cavern
over the boiling springs, to which he was now
making his way, the efficient means of
destruction, Taönui arrived at the rapids of a
river, which terminated in a series of
cataracts. The gleaming waters shot, wavering
and heaving along, till they reached the edge
of the table-land, over which they rushed,
and fell foaming from rock to rock in their
descent—here a cataract, green and vivid;
there, another one, grey and purple—now
falling gloomy in the shadow of chasms and
over-hanging ledges,—now one level sheet
below of seething foam, hurrying to utter
darkness. A narrow, flying-bridge,